Momma's Mess Hall
My grandmother had seven children. Her mother had eleven. I am convinced that had I not been as careful as I was, I'd have twelve now myself.
But back to my grandmother. She had seven children.
Consequently, she had to care for those seven children.
When I was young, I was put on meatball duty at her house. Frequently. This is a form of slavery wherein one is forced, against one's will, to roll several pounds' worth of meatballs, both regular-sized and tiny ones for soup, before one could continue outside to play.
I used to sit in her pots and pans because they were so large.
Why am I rambling about my grandmother's cooking, you ask?
Because everyone in my house is now eating solid food.
They eat waffles, eggs, pizza, pasta, you-name-it. Three times a day.
With just my son eating solid food, we were able to make 'normal' meals and had plenty to go around. Now? Well, now, we've got two little tapeworms sucking everything up right under our noses. We've, embarrassingly, run out of food at the table more than once, causing us to scramble back to the cupboard or freezer to whip up more.
Every night, we give my son a sippy cup filled with water and one chocolate chip cookie. Every night, he is violently and relentlessly attacked by at least one sibling for it.
I think we may have a supply problem.
Did you know I have to cook eight eggs in the morning now? Have you ever cracked eight eggs at once? It's tedious. And horrific. I have to cook them in a wok. And, at the end of breakfast, my son is still asking for more eggie. Our four-slice toaster gasps and chokes at the sight of me. I've had to call my mother in to bring over extra eggs. Something's very wrong here.
I'm not a short-order cook, I'm running the prison chow line.
We're now shopping at the warehouse store. The warehouse store, where they don't give you bags, where you're left in the parking lot, vulnerable, holding a five-pound package of dripping pork chops, easy prey for hungry coyotes. The warehouse store, where you can't buy one of anything, and if you can, it's in a forty-pound drum.
I always swore to myself I'd never shop at the warehouse store. I also swore to myself I'd never cook for an army, you know, after bovine work camp.
But an army's what I got, and it's growing, and a five-dozen pallet of eggs doesn't seem to fit in my cart anywhere else.
Now please excuse me while I find a flattering apron and hairnet. Anyone know how to grow a mole?
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